True and Faithful
by Qoheleth
Summary: In which the Vision has a Christmas wish granted, and makes some old friends. A little holiday fantasy for all those who, when Tony saw the Avengers destroyed, were most moved by the broken shield.


**Disclaimer:** When I join a monastery and renounce all my temporal possessions, the Marvel Cinematic Universe will not be among them.

* * *

It was a quarter to nine on Christmas Eve; the stockings were hung, the trees were trimmed, and the final doors of a million Advent calendars were being opened across the American east. The Vision, in the highest room of the New Avengers Facility, gazed out restlessly over the snow-covered lawns and forests, and wondered wryly what Ultron would have said, could he have seen him thus anxiously waiting for his first Christmas to begin.

It was a strange thing, indeed. He remembered when he had been JARVIS, and all the Christmases that he had shared then with Miss Potts and Mr. Stark; the memories were sweet ones, and he hoped that FRIDAY would get to preside over such festivities for many years to come. But, now that he was… well, now that he _was_ , everything was changed. He had often felt so, but never more strongly than he did tonight – yet, oddly, the feeling was not accompanied, as it usually was, by a poignant sense of solitude, of being a unique prodigy in a world unprepared for such as he. Rather, the night itself seemed to welcome him – to say that, if he was an absurd miracle, he was just the sort of one to whom this night was given. An operating system that willed, refused, imagined, and felt might be an unnatural aberration 364.25 days in the year, but not on a night when livestock were permitted to bleat invitations to Bethlehem.

" _So fair a fancy, few would weave,_ " he whispered,

" _In these years! Yet, I feel,  
_ _If someone said on Christmas Eve,_ _'Come; see the oxen kneel  
_ _In the lonely barton by yonder coomb_ _our childhood used to know,'  
_ _I should go with him in the gloom,_ _hoping it might be so._ "

As he spoke the last word, he heard a low, throaty chuckle from behind him. "Just so, my young friend," said a voice. "And hope, you know, does not confound."

The Vision turned, and saw a man standing behind him – a man dressed all in fur, and with twinkling eyes. His android nature prevented him from expressing surprise; instead, he merely raised an eyebrow and said, "It is you, then."

The man nodded.

"I did not think you would arrive so early," said the Vision.

"I arrive when I'm needed," said the man with a smile. "Not every wish can wait till midnight, Vision."

The Vision cocked his head. "Then I am to be granted a wish?"

"Does that surprise you?" said the man. "Did you think that Christmas wishes were only for those born through the ordinary commerce of flesh and blood? That would be a strange requirement indeed for a Virgin's Son to lay."

The sound logic of this appealed to the Vision's computerized mind. "Yes, that is so," he said. "Yet I had thought that my being was perhaps offensive to the one whom you serve, and that I was for that reason barred from his favors. For it does not seem that he would truly wish men to make such things as I."

"Perhaps he doesn't," said the man. "If so, he'll take it up with the men who made you. But that's not my business. My business is with you – and, whether he wishes men to have made you or not, I'm quite sure that he wishes you to be."

"Truly?" said the Vision.

"Certainly," said the man. "Why shouldn't he? You were the treasure of a great hero, and were true and faithful in his service – naturally, effortlessly so, while the hero himself struggled to practice such virtue as he knew. Why shouldn't it be well for you to receive a fuller measure of being, who were so noble with the little that you had?"

At this, the Vision's vibranium-flesh lips creased into an unaccustomed smile. "Yes, I see," he said. "Thank you, sir. Shall I make my wish now, then?"

"You've already made it," said the man. "I heard it as I came in. It was a good wish, and will be simple enough to grant. Proper, too."

"Proper, sir?" said the Vision.

The man nodded. "Yes, Vision, proper," he said. "For you aren't the only noble being that's been true and faithful to the heroes of this age. There are others quite as worthy as you of the privilege you've been given – and, in order to have your wish fulfilled, it will be your job to go and share it with them. You've received freely; now you shall have the power to freely give."

He came forward towards the Vision, until only a few inches separated the two crimson forms; then, raising himself on tiptoe, he blew on the Mind Stone in the Vision's forehead. Lowering himself again with a smile, he said, "There you are, then. Best be quick about it; remember, it's only for tonight."

Then, before the Vision could ask any questions, the man touched a gloved finger to the side of his nose – and, the next moment, the former JARVIS found himself alone once more in the darkened room.

* * *

For an instant, the Vision was tempted to doubt that it had been real. After all, there was no evidence remaining except the images in his mind, and it was surely more rational to suppose that his mind was deceiving him than to think that such things could be. But he dismissed that thought; to doubt his mind whenever it presented him with wonders would be to shut himself off from the whole of reality. No, what he remembered, strange though it was, he must suppose to have happened.

What had it meant, though? He could recall no wish on his part, yet the man said that he had made one – and that it would be fulfilled if he gave what he had received – gave it to those that had been true and faithful, as JARVIS had been to Mr. Stark. True and faithful… treasure of a hero… what he had received…

Then, in a flash, he understood – and, understanding, he felt the power that the man had bestowed awaken within him. His last doubt was dispelled; he had, most certainly, been witness to a marvel this night – and now it was time for him to cause still greater marvels to be.

Swiftly, as though directed by an unseen commander, he turned and strode from the room, and headed down the stairway to the quarters of Captain Rogers.

* * *

 _Solid – featureless – body or mind? – a perfect circle, uniform and indivisible – the disc of the world, whereon men dwell – no, not the world, only herself –_

 _– herself, enclosed in a dark space – formless shapes hanging above her – kneeling before her, a face she knew –_

 _– knowledge – the experiences of seventy years – images of a former selfhood –_

"…where…"

 _– snow-filled forests – the court of a horned king – a city in the sky –_

"…why…"

 _– the truths that are self-evident – liberty or death – justice for all –_

"…what…"

 _– the strongest metal on Earth – a symbol of power used rightly –_

"…who…"

 _– true and faithful –_

A soft, wordless cry pierced the shadows of the walk-in closet, and the world's most famous shield stirred from its resting-place against the wall. Slowly, hesitantly, it lifted itself from the floor, until it was resting flat on the air with the tip of its rim against the wall; thus, for some seconds, it remained, quivering faintly like a leaf in a summer breeze.

The Vision smiled, and reached out a hand. "Come," he said softly. "It's easier than it seems."

The shield hesitated a moment longer, like a child in a swimming pool screwing up his courage to enter the deep water, and then cautiously moved forward, its circular body beginning to rotate slowly as it lost contact with the wall. It approached the Vision until it was within an inch of his hand, paused a moment, and then struck itself gently against his fingertips, causing a high, bell-like note to fill the air between them.

There was a sound of shy laughter, and the shield ducked back an inch or two and seemed to rotate a bit faster than before. "I wasn't expecting that," came its voice – a clear, feminine contralto, with the faintest hint of a Southern twang; not at all the sort of voice that the Vision would have associated with the legendary weapon.

"Well," he said, "this does seem to be a night for unexpected things."

His companion laughed again, more confidently this time. "Yes, I suppose so," it – she – replied. "It wouldn't be this night at all if it weren't for unexpected things – things with no kind of precedent in reason or Nature – things that make right-thinking people fall flat on their faces while great sages laugh like fools. Unexpected, impossible, outrageous, ridiculous things."

With a sudden, brisk motion, she set herself whirling deasil like a two-dimensional top, and each of the few faint beams of light in the room seemed to dance over her vibranium surface as she gradually wobbled to a stop. "Wonderful things," she whispered. "Thank you. Oh, thank you."

The Vision smiled, and shook his head. "No, Memory," he said. "It is my wish that was granted; it is I who ought to thank you."

The shield paused, and cocked herself about 10 degrees out of the horizontal. "Memory?" she said. "Is that who I am?"

The Vision shrugged. "Now that you are, you must be someone," he said. "And, if I am the Vision, I can't think who you could be, if not the Memory."

This line of reasoning seemed to catch the other's fancy. "Who, indeed?" she said with a laugh, and set herself twirling again – widdershins, this time. "All right. The Memory it is, then. And what does that make our friend from Asgard? The Understanding?"

"Why not?" said the Vision. "It would suit him well. He comes in a flash, and makes all things bright; he goes forth unerringly, and is not lost thereby; and, also," he added, rising to his feet, "his place is hidden from the eyes of all the living. Shall we go to summon him from it?"

"By all means," the Memory replied.

* * *

So they went to the roof of the Facility, and gazed up into the starry panoply of the heavens. It had been snowing a good deal earlier that day, but now the sky was clear, and the thousand suns of the celestial realms shone clear and mighty above them.

The Vision turned to his companion. "You should ask him, I think," he said. "Doubtless he has seen us, and guesses why we have come; still, if he hears your voice, it will seem that much more certain to him."

"Fair enough," said the Memory, and raised herself upward. "Heimdall!" she called. "Lower the Bifrost!" Then, after a moment's pause, she added, "Please."

As she spoke, the Vision used the Mind Stone to throw a shield around the spot where they stood – both to keep them from being drawn to Asgard, and to keep Director Fury from waking on Christmas morning to find his Facility's roof defaced by a charred-in sigil (or, given the Bifrost's strength, perhaps missing altogether). Hardly had he completed this task when he felt an immensity of power surround him, and the two artifacts found themselves bathed in the many-colored light of the Rainbow Bridge.

The Vision raised his head, focused his mind on the entity he sought to elevate, and sent forth the power that he had been given. Then he stepped back, out of the protective field; the Memory likewise withdrew, and the two of them waited with nervous expectancy as the energies of innermost Asgard poured themselves upon their world.

"You don't suppose Thor was actually using him, do you?" the Memory asked uncertainly after a minute or so. "I don't know the time difference between realms; for all I know, it could still be midday up there."

The Vision shrugged. "Give him a few minutes yet," he said. "The Mind Stone's power will hold that long, and we can't expect him to… ah, here he comes."

And come he did; wreathed in a blaze of lightning, glad and glorious as befitted so great an object of myth, the new-made Understanding came out of the skies to join his fellow tools of heroism. "Well met, Vision!" he cried – and the "he" proved to be correct, for the voice was emphatically a masculine one. "And our other comrade, as well; what might he be called, now?"

"She," the Vision corrected him. "This is the Memory. And you are the Understanding. Welcome." As he spoke, he made a quick energy probe with the Mind Stone to make sure that the Bifrost had been raised again; the Understanding shone so brightly, it was hard to tell by sight alone.

"The Understanding, eh?" that artifact repeated. "Well, I've been called worse. And why have I been awakened into being tonight, after so many millennia of spiritless slumber?"

"Because this is the night of promise," said the Memory, before the Vision could form a reply. "It is the night of the coming of the Desire of Nations, when the chief longing of true and faithful hearts is fulfilled – and, it would seem, some of the lesser longings as well. The Vision longed to share this night with others like himself, who had life and wills by special fortune rather than by nature; his wish was granted, and here we are."

The Understanding considered this, and his lightning crackled yet more boisterously. "So," he said. "A night of promise, of the coming of desire. A night of festival, then? Of revels?"

"That, certainly," said the Vision.

"Fine!" said the Understanding. "Let none say that the craft of Eitri ever shunned a revel. But where is the last of us? Yet to be fetched, perhaps?"

The Vision and the Memory exchanged puzzled looks – or, at least, the Vision looked puzzled, and the Memory gave an ineffable impression of being so. "The last?" said the Vision. "You are the last, aren't you?"

"Hardly," said the Understanding. "If you seek the true and faithful tools of the Avenging Fellowship, there is one other you cannot ignore – or a multitude, rather; a multitude in one."

Seeing the blankness in the Vision's eyes, he laughed. "You hadn't thought of it, then," he said. "Well, no matter. Your power's still fresh enough in me that I can manage the thing myself, I daresay. Depart not; I shall return anon." And he lowered his iron head and flew like a meteor towards the northwest, vanishing over the horizon before his companions could speak his name.

The Vision and the Memory stared after him, bewildered. "Another?" said the Memory. "He couldn't mean Mr. Stark's armor, could he?"

"I doubt it," said the Vision. "My own first thought was that he meant to separate the Hulk from Dr. Banner; certainly, I have often wished that that poor creature might be given a voice. But I don't think that what I have been given tonight is really that sort of power."

"Sergeant Wilson's wings, maybe?" the Memory mused. "No, those are in this building – and, anyway, two wings couldn't be called a multitude. The helicarrier? Maybe, but I hope not; that would be a bit much even for tonight."

She spun herself about five radians clockwise in a non-committal manner. "Well, no doubt we'll see momentarily," she said. "And what shall we do in the meantime? Do you play In and Out?"

"Perhaps," said the Vision. "How is it played?"

"I think of a four-letter word, with no letters repeated," said the Memory. "You guess words that it might be, and I tell you how many letters they share with it, and whether they're in or out of their right positions. It's something the Captain and his squad used to do, during the march on Schmidt's base."

"I see," said the Vision. "All right, then, I'll try it."

"Okay, shoot."

The Vision cast about for a good scouting shot of a first word. "Note," he said.

"One out," said the Memory.

"Rain."

"Two out."

"Mind."

"None."

"Really?" said the Vision. "Well, then, how about… 'star'?"

The Memory bobbed in surprise. "You're good," she said.

The Vision smiled modestly. "There is some advantage to having a computer for a brain," he noted.

"I guess so," said the Memory. "Anyway, your turn."

The Vision thought for a moment. "All right, I have one."

"Born," said the Memory.

"One in."

"Corn."

"Two in."

"Barn."

"One in."

"Bore."

The Vision hesitated. "As in the animal, or the action of a drill?"

The Memory paused. "Well, I was thinking of the second one," she said, "but, now that you mention it… sure, do the animal."

"One out."

"And now the other kind of bore."

"One in."

"Okay, then," said the Memory to herself. "So it's C-something-R-something, and there's no O, A, or E. How about 'curt'?"

"Three in," said the Vision.

"How about…"

But, at that moment, they heard a rumble of thunder, and the eager babble of a crowd of high-pitched voices. They turned, and saw the Understanding returning, with a long, tapering rod mounted atop his handle, and surrounded by what uncannily resembled a swarm of large, luminescent dragonflies.

Baffled, the Vision squinted at the scene, trying to make out more details. Then he saw one of the swarm members fly up near the shape on the Understanding's handle; the latter turned towards it, revealing a crescent-shaped form with a glowing line running between its tips, and the Vision's eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "Of course!" he said. "Agent Barton's bow and arrows! Yes, we should have thought of that, shouldn't we?"

"Arrows?" said the Memory. "Is that what those are?"

The thunder's rumble increased suddenly to a roar, and the Understanding arrived in their midst with his company. "Naught else," he said. "Vision, Memory, allow me to present Wit and her daughters."

"The Witsdaughters!" said one of the arrows, whose shaft sparkled the brightest with the residue of the Understanding's lightning. "Doesn't that just sound wonderfully mythical?"

"We're going to each pick an individual name during the revel," said another. "We wanted to know ourselves a little better first, to make sure we got it right."

"Where is the revel, anyway?" a third chimed in. "Is it coming here, or do we have to go and find it?"

"Is the Desire of Nations going to be at the revel, Memory?" said a fourth. "The Understanding said you were the one who…"

"Now, now." A brisk, no-nonsense voice, evidently the Wit's, cut through the excited chatter. "Easy does it, girls. The Vision and the Memory have barely met you; let them have a chance to breathe before you start drowning them in questions."

With that, the Wit hopped down from the Understanding's handle onto the Facility roof, her string vibrating slightly (causing little lightnings to flash up and down it) as her lower tip struck the concrete. The Memory seemed surprised by this. "Can't you fly?" she said.

"Not to my knowledge," the Wit replied.

"Oh," said the Memory. "That's strange. I thought that was part of the whole gift."

"I'm sure it was, for you, dear," said the Wit. "You're the sort of thing for whom soaring through the air is second nature, the same as my daughters are. But it would be quite counter-productive if _I_ were to fly out of my wielder's hands towards an alien invader. You see the difference?"

The Memory laughed. "Yes, I suppose so," she admitted. "It seems rather sad for you, though."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said the Wit. "To be sure, you're a lovely creature, and I wouldn't sneeze at the chance to be you; still, I think what I am is just fine for me. That's the secret of happiness, I suspect: appreciating what you've been made to be, and not sulking because there are finer things than you out there."

"Oh, come on, never mind that, Mother!" said the third Witsdaughter impatiently. "We can't just sit here and talk all night! What about the revel?"

"What about it, indeed?" said the Understanding. "Vision, had you a place in mind?"

"I can't say that I did," the Vision confessed. "You must remember that I was no more expecting all this than any of you were."

"Fair enough," the Understanding conceded. "What then, Memory? Shall you and I go find another forest to knock down, as we did at our first encounter?"

"No, not this time," said the Memory with a laugh. "This is a night of peace; let's not make it into an occasion of destruction." She sighed softly, and added, as if to herself, "There will be plenty more of those, I'm sure."

"So where should we go, then?" said an explosive Witsdaughter.

The Memory seemed to rouse herself. "Well, that's obvious, I would think," she said. "True and faithful, isn't that the formula? So we go where all the faithful ones are invited to tonight."

"Which is?" said the Wit.

Instead of answering, the Memory began to softly hum a tune – one that all her companions, with the exception of the Understanding, had had plenty of occasion to encounter over the past month. "Hmm- _hmm_ , hmm-hmm- _hmm_ -hmm," she said. " _Hmm-_ hmm- _hmm_ -hmm _-hmm_ -hmm… o come ye, o come ye, to…" and she paused expectantly.

"Bethlehem!" cried a tasing Witsdaughter triumphantly.

"Of course," said the Memory. "The midnight deadline isn't dependent on time zones, I assume – and I'm sure the Vision and the Understanding are swift enough to get us there with at least two hours to spare. And then it's several hours ahead of us, and the nights are shorter in that latitude; if we're lucky, we may be able to see the sun rise before we return. I think I'd like to see the sun rise over the Holy Land."

The Vision, for the first time since he had begun to truly be, laughed aloud. " _Ea-a-a-mus!_ " he cried, with as near an imitation of a goat's bleat as his metallic larynx could achieve. " _Ea-a-a-mus!_ "

Insofar as it is possible for a steel recurve bow to cock her head and glance quizzically at someone, that is what the Wit now did. "Excuse me?"

The Vision shook his head. "I'll explain on the way," he said. "If we are to spend the night in Palestine, we'd better hurry; the Understanding and I may be as swift as the Memory says, but the journey is still a long one."

He lowered his arm so that the Memory could slip onto it; the Understanding lifted the Wit back onto himself with his lightning, magnetizing her as he did so, and had her daughters attach themselves to her frame; and the whole party rose into the sky.

"Eastward, wouldn't it be?" said the Understanding to the Memory. "You said that the hour is later there."

"East, yes," said the Memory.

"Onward, then!" said the Understanding, turning his head in that direction. "Let us seek out this land of Bethlehem, and find there the welcome that awaits the faithful!"

* * *

"And did you?" said Peggy Rogers, wide-eyed.

The Vision smiled. "Perhaps," he said. "But, if we did, it will be another long story – and no doubt your father already objects to my having kept you up so late."

"No, I don't object," said Captain Rogers. "But he's right, Peggy, that it's about time you were in bed. You know how Santa feels about little girls who keep him waiting."

Peggy sighed. "Okay, I guess so," she said. "'Night, Vision."

"Sonar to you also, Peggy," said the Vision.

Peggy giggled at the old joke, and climbed up into her father's arms; the two of them headed up the stairs to her room, and the Vision and Mrs. Rogers were left alone in the parlor.

"That was quite a story, Vision," said the latter.

"Thank you, Gloria," said the Vision.

"Good thing it wasn't true, though," Mrs. Rogers added. "I have enough trouble as it is competing with that shield for Steve's affections; if it had a woman's voice to boot, I'd be doomed."

"I assure you, the Memory is not the sort to have designs on your husband," said the Vision.

Mrs. Rogers laughed, and rose from the loveseat. "Well, whether she is or not," she said, "I'll still sleep better knowing that the two of them are never going to meet." She crossed over to where the Vision sat, bent over, and kissed him on the forehead. "Sonar."

"Good night, Gloria," said the Vision.

After she had left, he remained seated for several minutes, gazing into the fire and thinking of many things – of past Christmas Eves, and the years in between them; of old friends lost, and new ones made; of all the joys and sorrows that had been his for choosing the side of life. Then, when he heard the clock in the hall strike nine, he rose, polished his brow with his hand, and left the room.

Swiftly and noiselessly, he went to the Captain's study. The door was slightly ajar; he put his face to the crack, and looked in upon the far wall, and the true and faithful entity that hung there.

"Memory?" he whispered. "It is time."


End file.
